


Proxy

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three weeks since I had proper 'alone time' and the last barely counts because it was in the shower and left me largely unsatisfied. I'd have to estimate that it has been close to a month and a half since I've had a proper wank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proxy

The funny thing about time a la Jim is that it's measured in spans that are non-standard. Jim's time is literally whenever he's ready--I think the best way to divide it up is into patient and impatient. There are problems with that designation though. Sometimes, when Jim is patient, he waits for five seconds before throwing himself into something. And sometimes, when Jim is impatient, he can wait literal months before taking action.

Just when I think I've learned to tell perfect Jim Time, he changes his schedule and wrecks my entire system.

It has been three weeks since I had proper 'alone time' and the last barely counts because it was in the shower and left me largely unsatisfied. I'd have to estimate that it has been close to a month and a half since I've had a proper wank.

He had nearly walked in on me twice, once in a motel in Amsterdam and the second time in the car lot just outside of a dilapidated Argentinean bunker.

Most times, it wasn't an issue. Jim would allow me to leave occasionally for the evening and come back the next day. It sounds generous, maybe, but I can't help but feel a bit weirded out by the whole affair. The fact that Jim knows I pick up women and sleep with them unsettles me for some reason, and it's odd because I don't think I'd be quite so nervous if it were anyone else.

However, Jim has been too busy to let me go. It's understandable but not that great. Actually, not acceptable at all, really. I would have a word with him about it but the whole issue just seems embarrassing. Especially since, unlike him, I have a functioning libido—or, at least I don't think he has one.

Jim leaves the hotel room, straightening his blazer and looking more like an accountant than a criminal. The door clicks loudly as the mechanisms lock it behind him. For a full ten minutes I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting, breathing, wondering when Jim will be back. My heart hammers in my chest and I begin to jitter and shiver.

There is the threat that he could come back at any moment. I ball the sheets in my fists and go to the bathroom, locking the door and flipping down the lid of the toilet. I sit there, the clock over the light switch ticking the meaningless seconds and minutes away. I stand up, feeling my stomach tighten, and my hands shake as I unbutton my pants and zip down my fly. My jeans pool around my ankles and I shimmy out of my underwear. The porcelain lid of the toilet is cold at first but slowly warms.

My fingertips are cold, not too cold, but enough that my bare legs are covered in goose flesh. They heat up soon enough, a mixture of friction and blood flow. I close my eyes and let out a sigh, leaning back against the commode. I can no longer hear the ticking over my pulse and breathing and the slick slide of my hand.

My toes curl on the tile floor and I edge off, chest heaving. I realize, a bit late, that I should have just stripped naked because at this angle, I keep touching my shirt. A wet patch the size of a quarter stains just below my belly button.

Just as I recover and take myself in hand, I hear a distant noise. A small beep and a deafening click followed by the tale-tell sound of springs as the hotel door handle is pressed downwards.

Something akin to embarrassment makes my stomach do a somersault.

His steps are slow, deliberate, and I can hear him putting his leather briefcase down on the bedside table and toeing off his loafers. Then I lose him over the sound of my pulse and the damn clock. His footsteps are muffled by the carpet and I don't hear them properly until he's just in front of the door.

A normal man would knock, I think, unable to move. I'm froze stock-still, my hand gripping my cock—which is still interested, regardless of the situation—and my pants pooled around my ankles. 

The door knob jiggles.

“Seb.” He says just loud enough that I can hear it through the door. I strain to hear him.

“Yeah,” I stutter, letting go of myself and standing up suddenly to pull my underwear up. “Be out in a second.” I flush the toilet and struggle to put on my clothing.

“No.” Jim is right at the door. God, he might even be pressing his ear against it. “Let me in now.” I feel my stomach drop and I sit back down on the toilet, my underwear already halfway up my ass and the water starting to fill the toilet bowl.

“I'm a bit busy,” I clear my throat, my erection actually aching. I should have just let myself come and have been done with it.

“Oh,” he answers, not a question or a surprised sound. I struggle to think because it comes out like a slick, smooth pull on my dick. I visibly twitch, a dollop of pre-come rolling down my head. “I know.”

“Oh.” I respond weakly. I feel a bit feverish. It's just unprecedented and obscene. I've seen Jim shoot people in cold-blood, I've seen him burn down houses and blow up children, but compared to this—they don't begin to compare in absolute disgustingness. “Why?”

Jim doesn't answer, instead he breathes. Long, low, ragged breaths. He lets out a low sound and a murmur that shoots fire into the base of my spine. My breathing quickens in response. “What are you doing?”

He groans in response and he scrabbles against the door, “Seb, let me in.”

I try very hard to put myself in another place. A woman in a corset and fishnet stockings bent over the vanity, she has bright red lips and when I look into her eyes—all I can see is Jim. My hand slips into my underwear and my eyes roll into the back of my head. It's hard to grit out, “no,” while Jim is doing something that sounds oddly familiar just outside the bathroom door. 

“Goddamn it, no.” My hips jerk and the door knob jiggles. It hurts, aches, unbearably.  Jim lets out another noise this time, something like a dark chuckle, and I am undone.

It is eerily silent and I can feel nothing but an odd, empty fear. Jim has left his place at the bathroom door. My hands shake as I strip off my shirt and clean up, pulling on my underwear and pants. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long while, counting the useless minutes that go by as I bide my time. I'm angry, confused, but mostly angry. I grind my teeth, jaw twitching, and prepare to disagree.

I unlock the door and enter the bedroom. Jim is sitting on the bed, a ledger on his lap and an unused calculator beside him. He doesn't bother to look up. His clothes are immaculate, not a single odd crease.

My throat goes dry. 

“There's a Vietnamese place just down the street.” He says something in what I assume is Vietnamese and smiles down at his ledger, looking absolutely pleased with himself.

All the arguments I had plotted out, all the retorts, all the balanced statements leave my mind in an instant. “You're a right bastard,” I cross the room and open my suitcase, looking for a clean shirt.


End file.
